## Act I — Failed Relaxation Japantown looked better wet. Not cleaner. Nothing in Night City ever became cleaner because of rain. The city merely redistributed its filth into more reflective arrangements. Neon spilled across soaked pavement in long fractured colors while steam drifted upward from food stalls, vent stacks, and overheated transit ducts. Signs buzzed overhead in layered kanji, holo-ads, and half-dead animated mascots trying desperately to sell midnight happiness to people too exhausted to fake interest anymore. Somewhere nearby, music leaked from a pachinko arcade with the distorted acoustics of speakers that had lost a war against humidity years ago. Kiro barely heard any of it. Her attention stayed fixed on the small projected traffic map hovering over her workbench while lines of moving data crawled through the air around her in pale blue overlays. Outer district freight reroutes. Weather migration. Three active NCPD response clusters she was avoiding professionally. One inexplicable outage in the northern service lanes. Interesting. Probably not her problem. Hopefully. The upstairs workspace smelled like solder, overheated processors, synthetic coffee, and the faint ozone scent old hardware developed after too many illegal modifications. Cables nested across every surface in carefully unmanaged chaos. Two dismantled deck housings sat open beside an antique fan unit that rotated exactly fifteen degrees before clicking angrily and giving up. Kiro adjusted a sensor array with one hand while eating cold noodles with the other. Someone knocked twice against the half-open door frame. Perfect timing. Of course. “Come in,” Kiro called without looking up. Mai entered carrying rain with her. Not visibly soaked — Mai did not really do visibly soaked — but tiny droplets still clung to the shoulders of her dark coat while neon reflections shimmered faintly across silver hair under the room’s projection glow. Kiro looked up automatically. Paused. Well. That was new. Mai looked tired. Not damaged. Not overloaded. Not actively suppressing seventeen simultaneous disasters behind her eyes. Just… tired. Human tired. The difference was subtle enough most people would miss it instantly. Kiro didn’t. “Huh,” she said. Mai closed the door behind herself carefully. “That reaction usually means either concern or malware.” “You’re standing differently.” Mai blinked once. “…what?” “You’re not balancing your weight toward exits.” Mai frowned faintly like someone being accused of tax fraud. “I do not always do that.” “You absolutely always do that.” Kiro leaned back slightly in her chair, studying her now with open curiosity. Interesting. The sharpness was still there. Mai’s mind still moved visibly behind her eyes in rapid structural layers — tracking space, information density, movement, environmental risk. But the constant edge of overclock tension seemed lower tonight. Not gone. Reduced. Like some invisible pressure system had finally stopped screaming at critical levels. “Did you sleep recently?” Kiro asked carefully. Mai removed her coat with measured precision. “Technically.” “That’s a horrifying answer.” “I’m aware.” The corner of Kiro’s mouth twitched upward. Better already. Mai stepped deeper into the room, eyes immediately flicking once across: - hardware layout - unsecured cables - ventilation flow - projector stability - three separate fire hazards pretending to be charging stations Kiro watched the exact moment instinct took over. Mai moved one loose power coupler three centimeters to the left without even seeming consciously aware she’d done it. “There it is,” Kiro said immediately. Mai looked over. “What?” “You started optimizing the room within fourteen seconds.” “I adjusted one cable.” “You adjusted it because the previous position increased accidental strain probability by— what, twelve percent?” Mai paused. Thought about it. “…approximately.” Kiro pointed dramatically. “See? This is what I’m talking about.” Mai looked mildly offended at reality. “That was not tactical behavior.” “You literally threat-assessed my extension cords.” “They were concerning.” “They’ve always been concerning.” “Exactly.” Kiro laughed quietly and turned back toward the workbench monitors. Rain whispered against the exterior windows behind them while Japantown glowed beyond the glass in blurred vertical colors. Down below, late-night pedestrian traffic moved beneath umbrella canopies and holographic signage in restless streams. Mai stepped beside the projected traffic display, studying it automatically. “You still haven’t cleaned your routing architecture.” “You say that like it’s accidental.” “It’s inefficient.” “It’s personalized.” “It’s hostile.” “It’s art.” Mai made a small sound through her nose. Kiro narrowed her eyes immediately. “Was that amusement?” “No.” “That was definitely amusement.” “You’re projecting.” “I literally work with projections.” Mai closed her eyes briefly. Tiny smile. Gone almost immediately. But real enough that Kiro noticed. Interesting, she thought again. Very interesting. “Okay,” Kiro said slowly. “What happened?” Mai opened one eye. “Nothing.” “Incorrect. You’re approximately twenty-three percent less tightly wound than usual.” “That is not measurable.” “It absolutely is.” Kiro gestured vaguely toward her. “You’re moving like somebody whose nervous system remembered gravity exists.” Mai stared at her for a second too long. Then: “Shammy’s doing better.” There it is. Not the whole answer. But the real answer underneath everything else. Kiro nodded once. Makes sense. Mai had spent weeks carrying herself like a structural beam under too much load — perfectly functional right up until the moment physics stopped negotiating. And because Mai was Mai, she would have continued doing that until collapse rather than voluntarily admitting the load existed. “You worried me a little,” Kiro said casually. Mai’s expression softened by almost nothing. “That was not the intention.” “I know.” That was the dangerous part. Kiro killed the traffic overlay with a flick of her fingers and finally stood from the chair, stretching until multiple vertebrae cracked audibly. “Come on.” Mai tilted her head slightly. “Where?” “I’m conducting an experiment.” “That sentence historically leads to poor outcomes.” “I want to test whether you remember how to relax.” Mai immediately looked suspicious. “I know how to relax.” Kiro stared at her in complete silence. Rain hissed softly outside. One of the overhead processors emitted a concerning electrical whine. Finally Kiro said: “You organize your tea shelf by cognitive priority.” “That system works.” “You calculated optimal seating angles in a noodle shop once.” “The lighting was asymmetrical.” “You corrected my sleep schedule using traffic pattern analysis.” “It improved.” Kiro pointed toward the door. “This is exactly why we’re leaving.” Mai folded her arms lightly. “You have no destination.” “Correct.” “That is objectively inefficient.” “That,” Kiro informed her while grabbing a jacket off the back of the chair, “is the entire point.” Mai looked deeply unconvinced by this philosophy. Which, honestly, made Kiro even more determined to drag her into it. Outside, the rain had weakened into drifting mist by the time they stepped back onto the Japantown walkways. The city smelled alive tonight: - rainwater on concrete - noodle broth - electrical heat - cheap perfume - machine oil - ozone from overloaded signs Above them, elevated transit rails hummed softly while crowds flowed beneath layered neon reflections. Mai stopped automatically near the edge of the walkway, eyes scanning traffic movement and pedestrian density before Kiro gently caught her wrist. “Hey.” Mai looked over immediately. “You’re doing it again.” “…doing what?” “Turning a night walk into tactical mapping.” Mai opened her mouth. Paused. Closed it again. Kiro grinned. “Oh this is going to be fun.” --- They lasted eleven minutes before Mai started optimizing again. Kiro noticed because of course she did. The two of them stood beneath the overhang of a late-night food corridor while rainwater dripped rhythmically from neon-lit awnings overhead. Steam rolled out from vendor stalls in warm clouds carrying soy, spice, oil, and aggressively artificial citrus scent from a drink stand across the walkway. Crowds moved around them in loose nighttime currents: - salary workers too tired to go home yet - chrome-heavy mercs pretending not to watch each other - students - tourists - people who existed entirely between categories Night City at one in the morning always felt less divided somehow. Everyone looked equally exhausted. Mai stood near the counter studying the overhead menu display with visible concentration. Kiro narrowed her eyes immediately. “Oh no.” Mai glanced sideways. “What?” “You’re optimizing noodles.” “I’m selecting food.” “You’ve been analyzing nutritional density ratios for thirty seconds.” Mai looked back up at the menu. “The protein substitute in option three is structurally unstable.” “That is not a normal criticism.” “The sauce viscosity is compensating for texture degradation.” Kiro stared at her. Then burst out laughing hard enough that the vendor behind the counter looked mildly alarmed. Mai folded her arms. “I’m correct.” “That somehow makes it worse.” The vendor cautiously pointed at the menu. “…you still ordering?” Mai looked at the options one final time. Then sighed very softly. “Two number fours.” Kiro blinked. “The chaotic choice?” “I’m attempting spontaneity.” “That sounded medically painful.” “It is.” They took the food to a narrow standing counter beneath the awning while rain whispered through the alley beyond them. Holo-sign reflections shimmered across puddles at their feet while overhead transit lights drifted slowly through mist. Mai took one bite. Paused. Kiro watched carefully. “…well?” she asked. Mai considered the noodles with all the seriousness of a structural engineering review. “…acceptable.” Kiro pointed dramatically. “That’s basically enthusiasm from you.” Mai ignored this accusation and continued eating. For several quiet minutes neither spoke much. And that itself was unusual in a way Kiro appreciated. With most people, silence demanded maintenance eventually. Someone filled it. Someone apologized for it. Someone turned it into performance. Mai simply inhabited silence naturally. Not awkwardly. Precisely. Like she understood that quiet could be functional. Kiro leaned against the counter watching crowds drift through the rain. “You know what’s weird?” Mai glanced over. “You actually look present tonight.” Mai blinked once. “That is a strange sentence.” “You’re usually physically here and mentally running six disaster simulations simultaneously.” “That’s inaccurate.” Kiro stared. “…eight?” Mai took another bite of noodles. Kiro laughed quietly into her drink. “See? This is exactly what I mean.” A delivery drone buzzed low overhead before disappearing into the layered neon fog between buildings. Somewhere farther down the street, an argument broke out briefly near a pachinko hall before dissolving back into city noise. Mai watched the movement around them carefully, but not with the same sharp intensity as usual. More observational now. Less defensive. Kiro noticed that too. “Better?” she asked quietly. Mai understood the actual question immediately. “Yes.” The answer came without hesitation. Good. That mattered more than Kiro usually admitted out loud. They resumed walking after finishing the food, drifting without direction through side streets and elevated pedestrian decks while Japantown slowly shifted toward its late-night rhythm. Arcades still glowed. Market shutters half-closed. Music leaking from hidden bars beneath transit levels. Rain collecting in bright fractured pools under holo-signs. At some point Kiro realized Mai had unconsciously matched her walking pace exactly. No constant forward pressure. No subtle urgency. Just movement. Interesting. Very rare. They crossed a narrow overhead bridge between two commercial towers where wind pushed cool mist through the open framework hard enough to scatter droplets across their coats. Mai stopped briefly near the midpoint railing. The city spread outward beneath them in endless illuminated layers. Traffic arteries. Advertisement towers. Steam vents. Drone lanes. Distant megabuildings vanishing into low cloud. Night City looked infinite from above. Kiro leaned beside her against the rail. “Still trying to calculate it?” Mai’s eyes remained on the skyline. “The city?” “You.” A tiny pause. “Always.” Kiro nodded like that answer had been inevitable. “Must be exhausting.” Another small pause. “Yes.” No deflection this time. No intellectual sidestep. Just honesty worn thin by fatigue. Wind moved silver strands of Mai’s hair across her face before she tucked them back absently. “I became accustomed to monitoring too many variables simultaneously,” she said quietly. “That’s one way to describe it.” “Shammy destabilizing changed the equilibrium faster than expected.” There it is again. The real center underneath the conversation. Kiro stayed quiet. Mai rarely continued once interrupted during moments like this. “For a while,” Mai said slowly, “I was unconsciously preparing to compensate for the structural imbalance alone.” Kiro’s expression shifted immediately. Ah. There it is. Not fear exactly. Something colder. The thing Mai never said out loud because saying it made it real. Sole-anchor state. Kiro understood enough by now to know exactly how dangerous that concept actually was. Not immediate collapse. Worse. Long-term erosion. Mai carrying increasing stabilization load until eventually the distinction between function and self started disappearing. And the terrifying part? Mai absolutely would have done it. Quietly. Competently. Without asking for help. Kiro looked back out over the city lights for a moment before speaking carefully. “That would’ve destroyed you eventually.” Mai didn’t answer immediately. Which was answer enough. Rain drifted softly through the bridge structure around them. Far away over the western districts, faint lightning flickered once inside retreating cloud systems. Pacifica direction. Shammy probably awake, Kiro thought automatically. Interesting how interconnected that awareness had become around all of them now. Mai finally spoke again. “She’s recovering faster than projections suggested.” Kiro glanced sideways. “That sound in your voice?” Mai frowned faintly. “What sound?” “Relief.” Mai looked genuinely surprised by the observation. Then mildly annoyed at herself for being readable again. Kiro smiled a little. “There you are.” Mai exhaled quietly through her nose. “This conversation is becoming structurally invasive.” “That’s because you’re finally running below critical temperature for once.” “I was never at critical temperature.” Kiro gave her a long flat stare. Mai held it for approximately two seconds before looking back toward the skyline. “…that may have been statistically inaccurate.” “There she is.” Tiny smile again. Real again. The city hummed endlessly beneath them while rain drifted sideways through neon light. And for the first time in a very long while, Mai wasn’t actively trying to hold the entire world together by force of will alone. --- By the time they returned to Kiro’s workspace, the city had slipped fully into its deepest-hour rhythm. Not quiet. Night City was never quiet. But thinner somehow. Traffic reduced to scattered pulses beyond the windows. Distant sirens stretched farther through wet streets. Even the neon outside seemed dimmer now, colors bleeding lazily across rain-streaked glass instead of screaming for attention. The upstairs room greeted them with familiar chaos: - monitor glow - tangled cables - fan noise - half-disassembled hardware - stale heat trapped under old insulation Safe through repetition rather than cleanliness. Mai removed her coat carefully and hung it over the back of a chair. Then immediately reached down and untangled two crossed charging cables without conscious thought. Kiro saw it happen in real time. Pointed instantly. “There.” Mai froze mid-motion. “…what?” “You’re doing maintenance behavior again.” “I corrected an inefficient overlap.” “You physically cannot stop yourself.” Mai examined the cables as if hoping reality might defend her. It did not. Kiro dropped into the battered desk chair again, boots propped carelessly against a lower console housing while traffic maps and passive data feeds flickered across nearby displays. “You know normal people don’t reorganize wiring during decompression.” Mai sat beside the workbench, silver-blue eyes drifting across the room automatically. “The left cooling stack is also operating at uneven rotational intervals.” Kiro stared at her in disbelief. “You diagnosed my fan acoustics from across the room.” “The clicking pattern is irregular.” “I hate that you’re correct.” Mai tilted her head slightly. “You say that often.” “Because you keep being offensively competent.” The old fan clicked loudly behind them as if contributing to the conversation. Rainwater slid slowly down the windows overlooking Japantown while the room settled around them in layers of low electrical hum and distant city noise. For a while neither spoke. Kiro resumed sorting through fragmented data packets from an earlier scrape while Mai sat beside her with one leg crossed neatly over the other, posture gradually softening as the minutes passed. Not relaxing fully. But approaching the concept cautiously. Kiro noticed something else then. Mai wasn’t scanning the room anymore. No constant micro-adjustments. No predictive glances toward exits. No subtle environmental recalculations every few seconds. Her mind still moved visibly behind her eyes — Mai would probably continue processing reality at dangerous speeds until biological death — but the external pressure had finally lowered enough that she no longer seemed trapped inside constant threat geometry. That might genuinely be the closest thing to rest Mai knew how to achieve. Kiro glanced sideways. “Question.” Mai looked over immediately. “When was the last time you sat still for more than ten minutes without actively solving a problem?” Mai considered it seriously. Too seriously. “That is difficult to quantify.” “That’s a bad sign already.” “I don’t track inactivity.” “You absolutely track inactivity.” “…occasionally.” Kiro barked a laugh. “See? This is exactly why your nervous system is filing complaints.” Mai frowned faintly at a passive weather projection floating above one of the monitors. “The storm front is moving faster than predicted.” “Knew it,” Kiro muttered. “You found another thing to analyze.” “It was visible.” “You noticed because your brain treats existence like an ongoing systems audit.” Mai folded her arms lightly. “That sounds exaggerated.” “You corrected noodle architecture tonight.” “That sauce _was_ compensating for texture failure.” Kiro nearly fell backward laughing. The fact Mai remained completely serious only made it worse. “God, you’re incredible.” Mai blinked once at the wording. Not flirted with enough to react dramatically. Not unaware enough to miss it either. Instead she looked down briefly at the workbench surface while the faintest trace of color touched the tips of her ears beneath silver hair. Interesting. Very interesting. Kiro wisely decided not to comment before the moment collapsed under observation. Outside, a maglev train drifted silently through the night between towers, windows glowing pale blue through rain haze. Mai watched it pass. Then quietly: “I forgot how loud my own head was.” The room went still around the sentence. Kiro didn’t answer immediately. Didn’t rush to soften it. That was the trick with Mai: if you filled every silence too quickly, she retreated back into structure before the real thought finished existing. So Kiro simply let the room breathe. Fan clicking softly. Traffic humming below. Rain against glass. Mai leaned back slightly in the chair. “For the last several weeks,” she continued slowly, “everything narrowed toward maintaining operational stability.” Kiro listened quietly. “I stopped noticing the cognitive load because it became normalized.” There it is. Not dramatic burnout. Not breakdown. Something more dangerous: adaptation. Mai had adapted to carrying impossible mental weight so efficiently that even she had stopped recognizing the damage accumulating underneath it. Kiro studied her carefully in the monitor glow. “You know what the scary part is?” Mai glanced over. “You say all of this like it’s just maintenance backlog.” Mai looked mildly puzzled. “In a sense, it is.” “That,” Kiro informed her, “is an insane sentence.” Mai opened her mouth. Paused. Then, very reluctantly: “…possibly.” Kiro grinned triumphantly. “Another honest answer. This night’s full of miracles.” Mai leaned one elbow against the armrest now, posture gradually loosening by invisible degrees. It struck Kiro suddenly how different this felt from earlier months. Back then, spending time with Mai often carried the subtle pressure of proximity to overload — like standing beside a reactor running too hot behind reinforced walls. Now? The heat was still there. But stable again. Triad equilibrium restored. Not perfect. Never perfect. But breathing. A small notification pulse flickered across one of Kiro’s side monitors. Traffic irregularity report. Northern outer service roads. Minor breakdown incident delaying freight flow. Kiro skimmed it automatically. “Huh.” Mai glanced toward the screen. “What?” “Somebody’s terrible car died outside the northern service lanes.” Mai’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Probability?” Kiro immediately looked sideways at her. “Oh my God.” Mai folded her arms tighter. “That is not an answer.” “You sensed Ace through traffic infrastructure?” “I recognized the route pattern.” “That is somehow even more concerning.” Mai reached toward the console. Kiro caught her wrist gently before she could pull up deeper network access. “Hey.” Mai stopped immediately. Kiro held the look for a second. “She’s fine.” Mai remained still. Not defensive. Just thinking. Then slowly leaned back again instead of opening the report. Trust. Interesting thing to witness in real time. “You know,” Kiro said carefully, “that might actually count as progress.” Mai tilted her head slightly. “Explain.” “You saw a possible problem involving Ace and didn’t immediately attempt to solve the universe.” “That is an exaggeration.” “Minor exaggeration.” Mai looked toward the rain-streaked window again. “…I know she can handle herself.” The answer came quiet. Simple. True. Kiro smiled faintly to herself and let the subject drop. Outside, dawn still remained hours away. Inside, the room glowed warm with hardware light and quiet breathing space. And for several uninterrupted minutes after that, Mai finally did something almost unprecedented: Nothing at all. --- Time became strange after that. Not lost. Softened. The room settled into one of those rare late-night states where conversation no longer needed momentum to survive. Data windows drifted quietly across dark monitors while rain traced slow silver lines down the glass overlooking Japantown. Somewhere below, distant music pulsed through wet alleyways in muffled bass vibrations barely strong enough to reach the upper floors. Kiro rotated lazily in the desk chair, one boot occasionally nudging herself away from nearby hardware stacks before drifting back again. Mai sat beside the workstation with her attention unfocused for perhaps the first time all night. Not distracted. Resting. The distinction mattered. Kiro noticed it immediately and, for once in her life, wisely chose not to point it out. Instead she opened an old local video archive and let a grainy pre-collapse street racing clip begin playing across one of the side monitors. The footage quality was catastrophic. Compression artifacts everywhere. Audio desynced. Camera drone stabilization barely functional. Perfect. Mai watched the screen silently for a few seconds. “That vehicle suspension geometry is physically impossible.” “Shh,” Kiro said immediately. “The ancient rituals are beginning.” The race footage dissolved into total chaos within thirty seconds: - two near collisions - one flaming advertisement drone - a pedestrian food cart somehow entering the course - somebody firing a pistol into the air for no identifiable reason Mai stared. “…why is the crowd encouraging this?” “Cultural tradition.” “One car is actively shedding components.” “Weight reduction.” “That one lost a door.” “Aerodynamic sacrifice.” Mai turned slowly toward her. “You enjoy watching systems fail.” Kiro pointed triumphantly. “See? You _are_ relaxing. You made a joke.” “That was not a joke.” “It absolutely was.” Mai looked faintly alarmed at the possibility. Kiro grinned and let the terrible race footage continue. Outside, the rain finally began fading for real now. Water still dripped from rooftops and transit rails, but the storm itself had mostly exhausted its violence somewhere farther west. Pacifica direction again. Mai’s eyes drifted briefly toward the weather projection hovering above the monitors. Kiro noticed. “You can stop checking.” “I know.” “You still do it.” Mai was quiet for a moment. Then: “I became accustomed to anticipating instability.” Kiro nodded slowly. “Yeah.” There was no accusation in it. No judgment. Just understanding. Because that was the real damage constant pressure caused: eventually your nervous system stopped recognizing safety as a stable condition. It only recognized pauses between emergencies. The old race footage ended in spectacular disaster against a cargo barrier. Kiro applauded politely. Mai looked genuinely disturbed. “That driver survived?” “Statistically unclear.” “That is not reassuring.” “Neither is Night City.” Mai leaned back slightly farther in the chair now, shoulders lowering another barely visible degree. Interesting. Kiro had seen Mai exhausted before plenty of times. But usually exhaustion sharpened her instead of softening her. Like overworked systems compensating by running even hotter. Tonight was different. Tonight the pressure had somewhere to go. Triad stabilized again. Shammy alive. Ace breathing somewhere out there in the city. No active catastrophe demanding immediate structural correction. So now Mai’s body finally seemed to be discovering what happened after adrenaline. Kiro suspected the answer was: confusion. “You know,” she said carefully, “most people would’ve collapsed weeks ago under the amount of stress you were carrying.” Mai considered that. “I had responsibilities.” “That is the most Mai answer imaginable.” “It is also correct.” “Unfortunately.” The room hummed quietly around them. Monitor glow reflected softly across Mai’s silver-blue eyes while the city beyond the windows slowly shifted toward pre-dawn colors — black giving way to deep blue beneath the neon haze. Kiro watched her for another minute before speaking again. “You really don’t know how to exist off-duty, do you?” Mai frowned faintly. “That implies there is an identifiable off-duty state.” Kiro laughed under her breath. “Oh, your nervous system is _absolutely_ filing formal complaints.” Mai folded her arms. “My nervous system remains operational.” “That’s not the same thing as healthy.” A small pause. Then Mai looked toward the hardware stacks beside the desk. “The left cooling array still requires recalibration.” Kiro stared in complete disbelief. “You are literally trying to repair my apartment instead of processing emotions.” “I can do both.” “That answer was so immediate it scared me.” Another tiny almost-smile. More visible this time. The frightening thing was how much younger Mai looked during moments like this. Not physically. Structurally. Like the constant cognitive pressure usually added invisible years to her posture and expression. Kiro suddenly wondered how rarely anyone actually saw this version of her. Probably almost never. The realization landed oddly heavily. A soft vibration interrupted the room. Mai’s shard. Both of them looked down automatically. Single incoming message. Ace. Mai opened it immediately. > Alive. Car dead. That was all. Kiro barked a laugh before she could stop herself. “Oh my God.” Mai closed her eyes briefly. And there it was. Not the composed strategist. Not the stabilizer. Not the analyst. Just pure exhausted relief moving silently through her nervous system all at once. Tiny. Human. Real. When she opened her eyes again, the faint smile remained. Kiro leaned back in the chair slowly. “Well,” she said carefully, “that explains the traffic outage.” Mai looked mildly embarrassed at having been right. “You already knew it was her, didn’t you?” “The probability curve was distinctive.” “That is the single least romantic sentence anyone has ever used about someone they care about.” Mai tilted her head slightly. “It was accurate.” “That somehow makes it worse.” The skyline outside had begun brightening properly now. Wet Japantown streets reflected pale gold beneath the fading neon while early commuters slowly reclaimed the walkways below. Morning arriving. Mai stood slowly, coat in hand now. Not hurried. That alone felt historically significant. Kiro watched her quietly for a second before speaking. “You know your nervous system still needs a longer reset cycle.” Mai paused halfway into her coat. Slowly turned her head. Kiro remained completely straight-faced. “Extended recovery periods statistically improve long-term cognitive stabilization.” Mai stared at her for exactly two seconds. “…you weaponized medical terminology.” “I optimized it.” Tiny silence. Mai tried very hard not to smile. Failed slightly. “You prepared that sentence in advance.” “Several versions, actually.” That earned an actual visible smile this time — small, brief, dangerously genuine. Then Mai shook her head once, opened the door, and stepped back out into the waking city before Kiro could make the situation any worse. Cold morning air drifted briefly through the workspace carrying rain smell, traffic noise, and the distant living pulse of Night City below. Kiro watched the door close again. Then leaned back slowly in the chair, grinning to herself like someone who had just survived an unusually elegant systems failure. Outside, dawn spread across the city. And somewhere out there: - Ace was alive, - Shammy was breathing easier, - and for the first time in a long while, Mai had finally stopped trying to carry the entire world alone for a few hours.